


This Totally Isn't Rich Goranski's Diary.

by onlyeli



Category: Be More Chill - Iconis/Tracz
Genre: Diary/Journal, Other, POV First Person, Recovery, but also fuck everyone who spread rumours about him, from rich's pov obviously, he's an unreliable narrator and petty and biased so ..., he's very annoyed that he has to do it trust me, it's a recovery therapy blah blah thing, uuuh??? it's post fire and he's healing what more do you need
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-17
Updated: 2017-11-20
Packaged: 2019-01-18 19:39:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12394830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onlyeli/pseuds/onlyeli
Summary: Just a sidenote, for whatever therapist is reading this part. I know what you guys are trying to do. Listen, if you’re searching for some confession, or some tear stained pages about how Mommy left and Daddy hit us, or some cult ritual shit written in blood, you’re fucked. I didn’t do it, and I’ll tell you guys that until it gets through your numb skulls. It wasn’t me, and you guys can psychoanalyse this all you want, but Rich Goranski won’t be the next Making a Murderer case, alright?---Rich is given a diary to track his healing process with. Begrudgingly, he agrees to keep up with it - but, if he really has to do this, can they call it something cooler, like a Memoir or whatever?





	1. Chapter 1

7th Oct 2015.

Dear Rich Goranski.

They said call myself Richard in this stupid fucking thing, but I’m not gonna do that. They can suck my dick if they think they’re getting this book back, too. It’s pretty sweet, blue hardback with this felt stuff on the cover. I feel kinda bad writing in it but, hey, fuck it, what else am I supposed to do.

My handwriting looks like dogshit, man. I thought I was gonna have to, like, wedge the pen through the bandages and write like that, like in that one Spongebob episode, but I can move my fingers just fine. It’s a good thing I’m right handed cause my left side is, like, totally fucked. I got pressure gauze all the way up to my asscrack. I can barely breathe in all this shit, but they say it’ll help ease the scarring. I say fuck it, you know? I mean, my body’s fucked either way. Doesn’t really matter if it’s eased or not.

Nurse What’sherface says all this shit about thinking positive and healing through the mind or whatever. Between you and me, I think she’s been huffing straight out of my morphine supply when I’m not looking. Not like I can turn my head anything further than forty five degrees. Bedridden for a straight week and I still can’t do anything. It’s driving me crazy. I don’t think I’ve ever been still or quiet for this long.

Not talking is killing me, I can feel it. I mean, my voice is totally screwed still (smoke inhalation and screaming like a dumbass will do that to a guy, you know) but it feels like a real weight, somewhere on my chest. They keep telling me it’s the ADHD kicking in but I know it’s more than that. I don’t wanna get into the Situation where the doctors can see it, but He’s totally still around. Not enough that I almost die, this motherfucker’s gotta be dogging me everywhere I look, too.

Whatever. It was my decision. 14 year old me as a mess, and now 16 year old me has to deal with it.

I got a list of shit I need to expect from recovery, or whatever. Let me tell you, dude, it blew my fucking mind. They were reeling off all these movie words like PTSD and shit. They got to depression and I nearly bust a gut. No shit, depression! That’s not a fucking surprise, assholes! My face is fucked, my friends hate me, and I got the whole CPU shit going on as well as? Christ. Didn’t I take the fucking thing to get rid of that shit in the first place?

They talked about ‘increased aggression’ too, and that scared the shit outta me. I’ve seen what I can be like when that stuff happens, and I don’t like it even a little bit. Maybe I don’t know much about anything, but I know that’s not who I am, you know? It’s a part of recovery, or whatever, but I’m not so sure. Either way, maybe it’s better not to have a billion people coming in and out and leaving shit and talking to me. I’d probably be an ass to my visitors. You know, if I got any.

Just a sidenote, for whatever therapist is reading this part. I know what you guys are trying to do. Listen, if you’re searching for some confession, or some tear stained pages about how Mommy left and Daddy hit us, or some cult ritual shit written in blood, you’re fucked. I didn’t do it, and I’ll tell you guys that until it gets through your numb skulls. It wasn’t me, and you guys can psychoanalyse this all you want, but Rich Goranski won’t be the next Making a Murderer case, alright?

I wasn’t one of those kids who, like, killed rats or whatever for fun. I didn’t hurt people, I was on a little league team, I played catch with my brother in the park. I’m just a dude, you know? What they’re saying about me, it’s bullshit. I never set that fire. I didn’t wanna hurt anyone. I don’t know why they gotta pin that on me, you know? Heavy shit. I guess when something like this goes down all you wanna do is look for someone to blame.

Anyways, I’m bored and my hand is cramping. I guess this passed the time, or whatever. Better than watching Family Feud on tv and trying to sit up for three hours. Maybe I’ll write again tomorrow. I don’t know, man. Nothing happens in this place, and I am not spilling my guts out in some girly ass diary.

Sincerely, me.

P.S. I know. Don’t ask me. They want me to sign it like that.  
P.P.S. I’m really talking to myself right now, huh. Maybe I really did lose it.


	2. Chapter 2

9th Nov 2015.

Dear Rich Goranski.

Visitors, bitch! I woke up and Steven was asleep next to my drip. I got no idea how long he’d been there for. They tell me I knock out for, like, twelve hours at a time. It’s weird getting all these medical people analysing me and stuff. They’re really mad about my diet. I’ve not had enough calcium in my system since the Stone Age, apparently, and that means they’re force feeding me cheese like I’m on some kind of protest. I wanna tell them how expensive cheese is, but my throat is still a fucking ghost town, so I just gotta live with it.

Anyway. When Steve woke up, he talked a lot. He does that when he gets nervous - doesn’t shut up, and I just gotta nod and let him do his work. He says Dad doesn’t look any better or any worse, but I could have told you that. Doesn’t matter what happens - meteor crash, alien landing, one of his sons almost burns alive in a fire they say he set - the old man would still be knocking them back like there’s no tomorrow.

They let him eat with me, which was cool. Probably the best meal he’s had since we were kids. He’s booked the week off at the mechanic’s place but I wanted to tell him there’s no point, ‘cause I can’t talk yet and he needs the cash. I didn’t think about how we were gonna pay for all this treatment and stuff until I saw how goddamn tired he was. He’s been busting his ass to look after me. 

Feels like shit to be stuck in here.

I had my first hydro session after he left and man did that suck balls. There’s something about water that drives me fucking crazy, you know? The sounds and the feel of it. They dope me up before and after but that doesn’t mean shit. It’s so embarrassing. I know it’s gotta happen and water trauma and whatever the hell else but you don’t know humiliation ‘till you’re sat in a baby pool with a bunch of doctors prodding at you and scrawling on clipboards. 

I’m not gonna talk about my feelings or whatever because if we’re being honest I don’t want to and neither does He, but it kinda reminded me of before. He did His best to close them off but I still remember this one time after school when Tommy Ulrich and his idiot friends got me behind the math block and gave me that shiner. I had to tape my glasses ever since.

It hurts to dry off, too, which is just bullshit. Moving around and walking and stuff shouldn’t hurt. I have to do six months of hydrotherapy, three of physical and then I gotta see a counsellor to talk over whatever. This fire really fucked me up.

They still won’t tell me what happened to Jake. I know he’s alive, but they won’t let me see him. Something about stress. I think he blames me. I think I’d blame me.

Nurse What’sherface said she didn’t read my last letter but she made this huge thing of moving my morphine away from her whenever she came in and adjusting her nametag in my general direction. Joke’s on her, though, ‘cause I’m short sighted and I can’t read shit when she’s that far away. Hey, if you’re reading this, can you switch perfumes? The one you wear makes my eyes water and I’m scared that if I breathe it in any more it’ll make my lungs worse which would just be a tragedy and we wouldn’t want that, huh? 

The play is next week. Wonder who they got to fill in for me? Mr Reyes, probably. He’d kill to get back on stage. Hey, there’s a suspect! Where’s the theory of Mr Reyes sabotaging the party to steal a part? I’m onto something here, I think. 

I’ll ask someone, if they ever come in. 

On the upside, I’m getting real good at Family Fight. It’s the only show that works on my TV and they show the same season back to back, so I got all the answers this time. Gotta go, or I’ll miss it.

Sincerely, me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> he is so bored, please kill him. in case it isn't clear, steven is his brother! i hope to elaborate on their relationship soon bc i have a lot of hcs for them and i love them so much... as always feedback is appreciated! the play is Soon so rich's squip will be holding him back less in future chapters i think. Welcome To His Twisted Mind.


	3. Chapter 3

20th Nov 2015.

Dear Rich Goranski.  
Fuck me, right? That sure was a scare. Convinced everyone that I was done for last week, huh?

Jeremy told me what happened at the play, with the Code Red and everything. You’re welcome, by the way, for that. Bet you didn’t think Richard Goranski Jr would save the goddamn human race. Just more awesome shit that nobody noticed.

He’s not too bad. Michael’s funny as hell. We got to talking when Jeremy was still in Comatown (it was just me and him in there, and Jeremy’s vitals were getting annoying) and he seems like a pretty cool guy. Totally got it about the whole Squip thing, you know? Turns out Jeremy isn’t exactly sweetness and light when it’s in his system either.

It hurts like a motherfucker. Like my head is being crushed between two steel beams, or a vice, or something, and my teeth are fuzzy. I guess it’s like being struck by lightning, or something. I think the fire hurt worse (I was unconscious after about ninety seconds, I don’t remember), but this is real, man. Michael gets it. He says that weed helps with pain, but my lungs are still all kinds of fucked, so I told him I’d wait until they were better, or whatever. I think I’m gonna need an inhaler, but that’s okay, I guess. I give up on being annoyed about things I need.

Still no Jake. Haven’t seen him in almost a month, which blows. I know that I wasn’t, like, really his best friend - like, the me he knew wasn’t really me, or whatever - but he was mine, you know? He was real with me. It sucks. Him talking my ear off about frizbee golf is, like, exactly what I need right now.

Having Jeremy here isn’t so bad. Oh, shit, you see that? Jeremy Heere? Jeremy, here? I just noticed that, holy shit. Anyways, yeah, having Jeremy he(e)re isn’t so bad. I keep impressing him with all the Family Fight questions I know the answer to. I don’t think he realises they play the same ones over and over just yet.

I’m kinda jealous, actually.

No visitors for me, still. Starting to think they won’t come or anything.

Why am I still pretending they’re coming? They’re not fucking coming. None of them. Not Brooke, certainly not Chloe that stone cold raging monster bitch and absolutely not Jenna or Madeline. Jeremy won’t tell me what they’re saying exactly but whatever it is, it’s bad. I think they’re saying I set the fire, too. If they are, I’m gonna be so fucking mad, you know? Because, like, yeah, the doctors or the therapists or whatever, they weren’t there. They didn’t see the whole Code Red meltdown and they didn’t see the whole WARNING thing with Jeremy so they don’t know but everyone else? Man, I passed Chloe on the stairs. Jenna saw me in the kitchen, you know? They’re supposed to have my back.

My Squip won’t talk to me, no matter how hard I’m trying. I think I’m glad it’s gone, but the truth is, I don’t really know what I think. I’m not used to doing it on my own. 

I’ll update you on the Jake thing when I see him. They say I’m healed enough to go walking around soon, so I’m gonna do my best to sneak into his ward. Wish me luck.

I’m talking to a fucking diary. Jesus Christ.

Sincerely, me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> finally am i right... anyways here's this! ding dong the squip is dead, rich is pissed, he hates chloe, ec cetera, feedback is appreciated! thank u sm for being patient aaaa


End file.
